Winter's Wild Lament
by Arianna18
Summary: In December, 1981, with mandatory retirement looming two years in the future, and finding little joy in Christmas though he goes through the motions, Milt thinks his future looks pretty bleak.


**WINTER'S WILD LAMENT**

_b__y Arianna_

_For Suzanne, for Christmas_

_This is a companion story of sorts to 'Tis the Season, in which Mark spends in his _

_first Christmas in prison; _

_in this story, we take a look at Christmas from the Judge's point of view_

_and how he hopes to make his own future – the winter of his life -- less bleak._

_December, 198__1_

Shaking her head with mingled sorrow, frustration and a sense of helpless futility, her brow furrowed and her lips pursed in concern, Sarah unconsciously twisted a dish towel in her thin hands as she peered out the kitchen window at the Judge. He'd been working for hours, stringing festive lights along the eaves and around the windows, setting up decorative wire reindeer that would light the edges of the drive at night, and was now in the backyard overlooking the bay, putting the finishing touches on the nativity scene that would also light up at night. The requisite seven foot tree was already in the den, secured in its stand, waiting to be decked in traditional lights, baubles and star. Milton Hardcastle was going through all the motions of preparing for a festive Christmas, just as he had every year since … her throat tightened, but she determinedly sniffed and set aside her sorrow.

The Judge was a great believer in routine and discipline and structure as antidotes for a lack of true enthusiasm or joy, but his determination to carry on with the annual traditions seemed ever more grim and desperate as the years passed.

It was breaking her heart, but she didn't know what to do to ease pain he wouldn't thank her for mentioning.

- o -

Milt finished anchoring the manger frame before he stood to stretch his back, grumbling all the while about the aches and pains that were beginning to plague him. Staring out over the Pacific, his jaw clenched and his lips thin, he shook his head. He was too damned young to feel this old. But then he sighed. Inside, he might feel as young as he ever had, but his body was over sixty, so maybe it had grounds for a few aches and pains.

Frowning, he went back to work, setting up the shepherds before he tackled Joseph and Mary. Staying busy helped keep unwanted thoughts and poignant memories at bay but, every once in a while, a memory or two slipped through his defences. He remembered little hands reverently touching the metal frames and a sweet, piping voice asking what made the lights work; bigger hands and a voice breaking between youth and manhood proudly describing his science project to show how solar power worked … and asking to use one of the Christmas reindeer to illustrate the project at school; and then hands as strong and sturdy as his own taking charge, the rich, beloved voice saying, "Hey, Dad, why don't I do the drive this year, while you tackle the nativity scene out back?"

Milt's chest tightened and he drew a long, steadying breath as he deliberately forced the memories away. Not that he wanted to forget his son; he sure as hell didn't and would never forget the boy. But … but some memories cut too close to the bone, too close to the heart. To distract himself, he reflected on the cases from the past year that stood out most in his mind. Time and again over the year, his thoughts had turned to that day when disbelieving shock, then aghast horror, and finally utter despair had washed over Mark McCormick's face as the young man listened first to the jury's verdict of guilt and then – staring at him, hope of reprieve turning into desolation – to Milt's sentencing.

Grimacing, Milt chewed on his lip and wished he could erase those memories from his mind. He was pretty sure the kid had told the truth, that he'd put the car in Melinda whatshername's name to avoid crippling insurance costs, so he could see why the kid thought the car was his. But Milt also thought the girlfriend had been telling the truth, that she'd wholeheartedly believed the car was a 'gift to' – how had she put it? Oh, yeah – 'to celebrate the depth of Mark's everlasting love for her.' Quirking a brow, Milt had no trouble believing the glib, fast-talking McCormick had laid it on thick, to not only avoid the insurance but to win favors from the pretty Melinda, Melissa, M … something. Shaking his head, Milt told himself it didn't matter; wasn't likely he'd ever see the young woman again. The facts were that McCormick had taken the car when the relationship had hit the rocks, but hadn't been smart enough to put it back in his own name first. On paper, at least, the vehicle was clearly owned by someone else, and the law was the law. His earlier joy-riding beefs as a teenager, and his evident talent for 'repossessing' cars as a means of making ends meet hadn't much helped his plea of being as innocent as the driven snow.

Still, Milt couldn't shake the kid's face, his wide, despairing eyes, from his mind. Sure, the jury decided on the merits of the case that he was guilty, and the law was the law. But … but it _had _been his car; he would've had to work a lot of hours to have paid for that Porsche. So Milt had given him the minimum sentence and recommended incarceration in Strykerville, a low security prison, more like a farm camp. Wouldn't be a whole lot of fun, but it shouldn't scar the kid for life, either. McCormick probably wouldn't ever amount to much, but he hadn't seemed like a bad kid, just someone who'd made some bad choices.

Thoughts of the prison brought another of his cases to mind, this one from several years before: J.J. Beale. Finishing with the shepherds, Milt began working with Joseph as he remembered the man. Beale was a Rhodes scholar, an achievement that Milt held in awe. The man could have written his own ticket in any number of fields but for some unfathomable reason had decided to swindle his employer out of an obscene amount of money. And he'd been caught. His defence had been that his employer had reneged on the salary agreed upon and had withheld a substantial amount of wages at the very time that Beale had needed the money for his sick mother's expensive care. So, in a fit of desperation, he'd taken the money, to teach his erstwhile employer a lesson, but to also save the life of his poor old mother.

Beale had been very credible, and had even seemed sorry to have fallen into temptation. The jury had found him guilty – the facts of the matter left little doubt of his guilt – but it had been his first offence, so Milt had gone easy on him, again giving a minimum sentence with a recommendation for Strykerville. Beale hadn't met his eyes during the sentencing, just nodded tightly. Milt was sure the man regretted his actions and would never again stray from the straight and narrow, once he got out of prison. Sighing, Milt hoped the man would have a fair chance of picking up the pieces of his life – could be hard for an ex-con to find decent work, let alone work commensurate with the man's qualifications. Beale would be getting out of prison in the next year. Rubbing his mouth as he again straightened his aching back, having finished the last of the nativity scene, Milt thought he might just keep an eye out and if the man needed help getting re-established, well, maybe he could lend a hand.

Reluctantly, Milt headed back up the lawn toward the house and the naked tree waiting in the den. Decorating the tree was the hardest part of the annual rituals. The lawn ornaments and outside lights had been his responsibility, but they'd always tackled the tree as a family. A weary smile flitted over his lips as snatches of happy memories flickered in his mind. They'd had some very good times, good Christmases. Looking up into the endless blue of the sky, he absently rubbed the ever-present ache in his chest, the ache of grief and sorrow, and of wretched loneliness. Swallowing hard, he straightened his shoulders and fought to master the power the old hurts had to unman him. Thank God he had his work to distract him, to give him a reason to get up in the morning, a reason to keep going.

But then the grim truth of getting old intruded with the unwanted thought that he'd only have his work for less than another two years, and then he'd face mandatory retirement.

What the hell was he going to do then?

- o -

The following Saturday night, Milt hosted his annual Christmas party for friends, colleagues and office staff. He'd found that packing the house with people made it feel less hollow and, besides, the party was one he and Nancy had initiated many years before. Accordingly, it was one more tradition he was determined to continue honoring, but one which held more in the way of pleasant distractions than memories. Not to mention, since the event was catered, it was the one time of the year when Sarah, much to her annual protestations that she could manage just fine and there was no reason at all for special treatment, was a guest rather than the creator of the feast. Milt spotted her sipping the eggnog, her normally sallow complexion flushed pink and a smile teasing the corners of her mouth as one of his colleagues gallantly flirted with her. Pleased to see her having a good time despite herself, he turned to greet Frank and his wife, both of whom were longtime friends dating back to the days when he'd worn a badge and Frank was a rookie, fresh out of the Academy.

"Come in, come in," he called, waving them inside. "Beer's in the fridge and there's eggnog in the den."

Frank gave him a weary smile and disappeared down the hall, while Milt ushered Claudia into the den and poured her a brimming crystal cup of holiday cheer. "Frank looks tireder than usual," he commented, wondering if something was wrong.

Claudia took the cup with a small smile. "You might have not heard but the Angel case got thrown out on a technicality late this afternoon; something about the search and seizure being improper or not having enough probable cause or something. Frank's upset about it."

"Don't blame him," Milt growled. "Thought we'd finally nailed that young hood. Damn."

"Guess we'll just have to try harder," Frank offered with a grim smile as he joined them and saluted Milt with his bottle of beer.

Milt grunted his agreement but thought it wouldn't be easy. The hoodlum was only in his mid-twenties, but he'd been trouble for ten years. The di Angelo kid, known in the backstreets of Hollywood as the Angel of Death, was both smart and ruthless – potential witnesses tended to disappear if they didn't conveniently have a lapse of memory; might be a cold day in hell before they got another shot at putting that creep behind bars. Heaving a sigh, mustering his determination to embody the Christmas spirit, he brushed the subject away. "Well, tonight's not the time to be worrying about the likes of him. It's Christmas and this is a party. So let's have a good time!"

But as the evening wore on, he found himself thinking more and more about the ones who got away, the bad ones who could afford the best lawyers and who could twist the law to suit themselves. Try as he might, he couldn't shake the thought that it might be legal but it wasn't right. The trouble was that the police were overwhelmed with too much crime and could only do their best. They didn't have the resources to win against the big players, didn't have the time. Disgruntled by what often felt like a futile situation, Milt had a tough time retaining his hard-won veneer of good cheer and was secretly relieved when the party finally wound down and the final guests departed into the night.

As he trudged up the stairs to his room, he could feel an idea niggling at him but he was too tired to pay it any attention.

The next day, after he and Sarah had finished clearing the den of the detritus of the party, and Sarah had retreated to her turf in the kitchen, he sat at his desk and studied his favorite photo of his family. The picture had been taken eight years before during their last Christmas together, their happy smiles and delight in one another blissfully and mercifully ignorant of what the coming year was to bring: a vicious, voracious disease for one and a deadly encounter with a drunken driver for the other. The only mercy was that Nancy had died before their son; it would have shattered her soul to watch him die. God knew, losing them both had left him broken inside and, regardless of what anyone said about time eventually healing all wounds, Milt doubted he'd ever be completely whole again.

Delicately, he traced his finger along the edge of Nancy's beautiful image. He'd love her so much; loved her still and always would. Nothing was the same without her teasing and laughter, her gentle but incisive wit; she'd never allowed him to take himself too seriously, and she was always able to make him feel as if there wasn't anything he couldn't do or achieve. She'd deserved better than to be struck down by what Charlie had said was one of the 'silent' cancers; by the time you knew you had it, it was game over. But, at least she hadn't suffered for long, and Milt supposed that was a small mercy. God, he wished it had been him and not her, wished he could have done something, anything, to help her.

His throat tightened, and he had to take a deep, shuddering breath to fight off the emotion that filled his chest before turning his gaze to his much loved but long lost son. Tall and sturdily built, with a devilish grin and twinkling eyes, the boy was the spitting image of him, or of how he'd looked at the same age. But his son had had more innate confidence, maybe because he hadn't grown up poor, but he hadn't been arrogant, hadn't taken anything for granted. And smart? He'd been up late, studying for his bar exam, had just taken a break to go for a run to get some air. He was hit by the drunk driver not more than half a mile from home. Milt hadn't even known his son had gone out that evening – he'd been living in the guest house for years by then – until the police had come to the door. Their words had left him reeling with shock and a disbelief that only gave way to blinding grief when he identified his son's broken body in the morgue. He'd thought losing Nancy was the hardest, worst thing he'd ever know, ever suffer, but he'd been wrong. This grief was excruciating, as if some essential part of him had been ripped out, leaving him torn asunder, utterly broken.

A man shouldn't outlive his son; it wasn't the way things were supposed to be.

They'd all had such hopes, dreams and plans. Life was supposed to have worked out much differently than it had. So much promise lost.

His vision blurred with old but still raw pain and he cursed under his breath as he sniffed and swiped at his eyes. Getting all maudlin wouldn't make anything any better. Sure, he'd hoped he and Nancy would grow old together; hoped he see his son with his own family. But it was not to be. He was alone and it was long past time he not only accepted but got used to the harsh facts of life. Alone and in less than two years, he was going to be retired and useless.

"Judge, I thought you might like a cup of coffee."

Startled by Sarah's voice, caught off-guard, he glared at her as she descended the steps and brought the steaming cup to his desk. Completely unintimidated, her own gaze was flinty as she stepped back and folded her hands together in a parody of the calm, ever ready to please servant. "Will there be anything else?" she asked, the tone brittle under the demur words.

Sighing, ashamed of himself for imposing his foul mood upon her, Milt sighed and shook his head. "I'm sorry." With a short nod to the photograph in his hands, he added stiffly, "Was just thinking about … well, about how rotten life can be. How unfair."

Sarah sniffed. "Life is what it is and we have to make the best of what we're given," she said in her dry, 'buck up, boy' tone. "I don't know about you, but I'm in no hurry to explore the alternative." Her manner softened though, as she added, "I miss them, too. Very much."

He nodded. Sarah had known Nancy since she'd been a girl; had known their son all his life. He'd never doubted her grief at their loss. Looking away, he muttered, "Hard enough now, when I can keep busy. But when I retire …?"

Her spine stiffening, Sarah scowled. "What about when you retire? You don't expect to just quit on life at the same time, do you? You're strong, healthy, and you've got a good brain in your head. What would Miss Nancy say if she saw you moping around like this instead of figuring out how you can still be useful?" She tut-tutted as she turned away. "Don't worry, it's not like you'll be retiring tomorrow. You've got plenty of time. I'm sure you'll find something worthwhile that will keep you busy."

"Damn it," he cursed under his breath once she'd disappeared from sight, resentful and embarrassed to have been caught in a weak moment. But Sarah was right. Nancy would give him a swift kick for being so maudlin.

Setting the photo down, he pushed away from the desk and rose to pace in agitation. He was too damned young to be put out to pasture. He still had a lot of good years in him. Maybe he should set up his own practice again. But … writing up wills and processing divorces didn't fire his imagination or passion. Corporate law would bore him to death. Mandatory retirement from the bench was required by the same rules that governed all municipal appointments, so he would also be too old to work for the DA's office. He could probably offer his services pro bono as a public defender, but he wasn't interested in spending his time trying to prove the innocence of too many people who were guilty as hell, just because they had the right to their day in court. He'd fight to sustain that right; he just didn't want to be party to helping a lot of bad apples find their way back onto the street.

Sighing, Milt knew he should be more committed to the principle of 'guilty until proven innocent' and he truly did believe in both the merit and necessity of such beliefs and laws, but having been a cop before he'd been a lawyer and then a jurist, he knew all too well that most of the cases that came before the court were pretty cut and dried. The complicated ones tended to be the cases where some yahoo was being framed by some really badass crook, or the crook had fast-talking lawyers raising clouds of misdirection that confused the jury or finding obscure loopholes to cause worthy cases to be thrown out of court. Oh, sure, the loopholes were legitimate, but safeguards to protect the innocent could also provide safety nets for the guilty. Everyone claimed they were innocent, but very, very few really were.

Raking his fingers through his thick hair, he told himself that he believed in the law, lived and breathed it, knew to the core of his soul that it was needed or the world would descend into chaos and the abject cruelty of the strongest holding sway over all others. But there were times when he sorely wished he had the luxury of time to go after the sharks who escaped justice and build ironclad cases to put them behind bars, where they belonged.

Disgruntled, seeking distraction, he turned on the television and dropped into a leather chair to watch whatever was currently playing on the Western channel. When he heard the William Tell Overture, he smiled, pleased, and settled back to watch the Lone Ranger bring truth and justice to the lawless west. One man working in secret against overwhelming odds, holding true to the spirit and intent of the law and risking all to stop the bad guys in their tracks and see that they went to jail, where they belonged – chuckling to himself, he remembered wanting to be the Lone Ranger, or someone just like him, when he was a kid.

Slouched in the chair, his chin propped on his fist, Milt chewed his lip as he reflected on the idea of a single man working outside the law but within the framework of its parameters, acting as a force for good but not quite as much of a loose cannon as a vigilante. Milt had no use for vigilantes and no time for people who took the law into their own hands. Oh, sure, he could understand the impulse – he'd wanted to horsewhip the man who'd run down his son and then hang him from the nearest tree; a life for a life. But that way lay madness, and if everyone ignored the law, acted as they saw fit, well, that would be the end of civil society. No, a community had to make its rules and then live by them to ensure everyone's rights were respected.

Still … the idea of working to protect the innocent and ensure justice prevailed was one that had motivated him all his life. And no one knew as well as he did that, too often, the worst criminals were never brought to account. They were too well protected by others who did their dirty work for them, surrounded by all the defences money could buy, whether that meant high stone walls or high-priced lawyers. The crooks with that kind of power intimidated witnesses, or made them disappear, or found ways to buy off or intimidate a jury member, or simply fled the country to live in the lap of luxury somewhere else. They made a mockery of the law. What he wouldn't give to put some of them behind bars….

Snorting, Milt told himself to get real. Maybe in the Old West, when times were simpler, maybe a lone ranger could make a difference. But today? Could one man working alone survive against the power and violence of the bad guys of the modern world? Aside from the fact that such an endeavour would be suicide, it would take a lot of resources: money, information, contacts …

All of which he had or could get.

No, no, the idea was crazy. It would take a lot of time and effort. A lot of time …

And then, like a bolt out of the blue, he realized that in less than two years he'd have that kind of time. He'd have all the time in the world and nothing else to do. Still, he thought with a heavy scowl, going after the big fish could be dangerous, if not actually suicidal. But he'd never been a man who was intimidated by the threat of danger. And he wasn't stupid – if and when he needed the help of the cops, he wouldn't be shy about asking for it.

Scratching his cheek, he thought about really going after the ones who'd gotten off on technicalities and a smile of anticipation, the first in a long, long time, slowly grew. Moving back to the desk, he picked up the photo. "What do you think, huh? Crazy? Yeah, yeah, I know. But it's something worth doing, and I don't know anyone else with the time and resources to do it." He smiled fondly, his head cocked to listen, even if it was only to the whispers of old memories. "I promise; I promise. I'll be careful."

Feeling enthusiastic for the first time in years, he circled the desk and pulled out a pen and a pad of paper. A project like this would take solid preparation, starting with making copies of the files in the courthouse to add to those he'd begun a long time ago, when he'd still been a cop; files on the likes of Joe Cadillac, which had been gathering dust for years down in the basement. And maybe he could get Frank to add what he could find in the police files. Sniffing, he rubbed his nose and thought about that. Probably wasn't a good idea to hook Frank into what could be deemed as a violation of privacy rights or even, potentially, harassment. No, no he'd have to requisition the files on the pretext of needing to verify documents contained in the court records. Grinning to himself, he thought about Rosie, and how she'd be able to lay her hands on everything he'd need in mere minutes, if not seconds, when it would take anyone else months to sort through the old files. Yes, yes, he was sure she'd help him find what he needed. Would take some time to build those files, to make the copies, but he had nearly two years to get ready.

A flurry of gunshots drew his attention back to the adventures of the Lone Ranger; Tonto was standing tall on a high rock, holding a rifle on the guys in the black hats who had tried to ambush the Lone Ranger. Rubbing his mouth, Milt reflected that the show might be called 'The Lone Ranger', but the guy had always had backup when he needed it. Tonto, huh? Would he need a Tonto?

Sitting back, he drummed his fingers on the desk as he thought about having constant and reliable backup. Scowling at the television, he decided he didn't want anyone who was as independent as Tonto who, though he didn't get top billing, was as much a partner, even brother of sorts to the Masked Man, than any kind of subordinate. No, if this admittedly harebrained initiative was going to work, then Milt was certain he needed to be in a position to call all the shots. But the idea of an employee, of hiring a mercenary to be … what? A bodyguard? No, no, he didn't want a bodyguard. He needed someone who could handle himself, sure, but who could also contribute ideas; he didn't want someone who might go off half-cocked with a weapon. That could get sticky. Besides, while he wasn't hurting for money, he never forgot that it had been Nancy's fortune, not his; he wanted to invest it in a way she'd approve of, and he wasn't sure she'd approve of him paying top wages to what amounted to a hired gun. No, no, there had to be another way of getting reliable help, meaning 'round the clock, twenty-four/seven, always on hand', without having to pay a fortune in wages and benefits.

"Sounds like you want a slave," he muttered in disgust. Leaning back in his chair, he swivelled to look out across the yard at the ocean beyond, hoping a change in perspective would give him an idea. Tongue in cheek, he let his gaze wander, taking in the grass he knew was overdue to be cut, the hedges that were getting raggedy, the rose bushes that needed pruning ….

"Gardener," he said, sitting up straight. "A live-in gardener instead of a service that's doing a lousy job anyway. So, where do I find a gardener who could also play cops and robbers?" Musing on that question led him to consider robbers he'd known – and that thought led him to the men he'd been thinking about not so many days before: J.J. Beale and Mark McCormick. Maybe a young single guy getting out of prison would appreciate a 'transitional' job that included room and board, and wasn't all that demanding, while he got used to being back in civil society and, at the same time, might not be adverse to sharing useful insights about how to catch other crooks. Both guys were in pretty good shape, or had been the last time he'd seen them. Let's see, Beale would be eligible for parole in what? Seven or so months? McCormick in just over a year. Both would be out before he retired, which might be a problem.

Of course, there was also the possibility that neither man would be interested in his offer. They might even blame him in some misguided way for the fact that they'd been sentenced to prison. Okay, so he'd done the sentencing, but they'd done the crime, so Milt didn't feel particularly bad about them doing the time. Well, maybe a little bad in McCormick's case. But Milt didn't make the rules, so he wasn't about to start apologizing for them.

By the time Sarah called him for dinner, he had a rough plan for his retirement. All he had to do was gather information on the ones that got away and check out those two guys, see how they were doing in the house with many doors, decide if they still looked like possible future … not employees. What? They'd be parolees when they got out. Maybe the one he chose could be paroled into his custody. Smiling as he ambled down the hall to the dining room, he rubbed his hands together and nodded to himself. Yeah, he liked that idea. Liked it a lot.

If the man was in Milt's custody, then he'd definitely be in charge, and that's exactly the way he wanted it.

- o -

Between Christmas and New Year's Eve, whistling under his breath, Milt put together a list of the files he would be requisitioning from the PD's archives … two hundred cases that had been thrown out on technicalities; two hundred bad guys he'd be taking a long leisurely look at once he could call all his time his own.

"My, you're in a good mood, Judge," Sarah observed with a smile as she placed a tray with coffee and cookies on the corner of his desk.

Looking up at her, he was surprised to find himself grinning. "I guess I am," he replied and was amazed at the realization; it had been a long time since he'd been happy, particularly at this time of year, and it felt good to be looking ahead again, to be planning something that filled him with enthusiasm. That almost made him feel young again.

"Are those notes for one of your current cases?" she asked with a worried frown. Not waiting for a response, she went on, "You work too hard. The Court closes down this time of year so that people can have a well deserved break. You need a hobby."

"Well, as a matter of fact," he said with no little hauteur, "I'm not working … at least, not on any current cases. I'm putting together ideas for keeping busy when I retire."

Sarah blinked, her surprise evident, and then she smiled. "I'm glad," she said and turned to go. At the door, she half-turned back. "Making a list of all the fishing holes you've always wanted to try?" she surmised with an arched brow.

Milt echoed, "Fishing holes?" Looking down at his list, he nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I'm planning on doing a lot of fishing. Gonna go after a few big ones that got away."

- o -

"Milton C. Hardcastle, do you have any idea how long it will take me to find all these files!" Rosie protested, aghast at the lengthy list. "Must be more'n a hundred here."

"Two hundred," Milt admitted, trying hard not to feel chagrined and wondering how Rosie could always make him feel like he was about five years old and still wet behind the ears. "But there's no big rush. Don't need 'em for months. Even a year …."

Rosie scowled at him, and then, scanning the list, her expression turned thoughtful. "What are you up to?"

"Is the Judge giving you a hard time?" Frank asked with a grin as he entered the file room.

"Me? Trouble?" Milt protested. "No, no … just … just working on some research. No rush," he insisted as he made his way out before either of them could ask him any more questions. But, behind him, he heard Rosie muse, "He's up to something," and he couldn't resist pausing to listen.

"What? Doing research? They do that all the time over in the courthouse," Frank replied, sounding unconcerned.

"Maybe. But whatever this research is, he's actin' happier than he's been in a long, long time. An' it just seems funny, you know? That he's only interested in really bad guys who got off on technicalities," Rosie retorted with a suspicious sniff.

"What?" Frank said, sounding interested. "Are you sure?"|

"Of course I'm sure!" she protested. "You think I don't know my files?"

Milt hotfooted down the hall, making his escape before Frank could ask questions he wasn't ready to answer.

- o -

When he checked up on J.J. Beale and Mark McCormick, he was dismayed to learn that while McCormick had started out at Strykerville, his stay there had been regrettably brief. Due to overcrowding, he'd been shuffled first to Clarkesville, a medium security prison, and then on to San Quentin. "Damn it," Milt muttered with a grimace. "That kid doesn't belong there."

Unsettled to realize how much it bothered him, Milt shook it off. There wasn't a thing he could do about it and it was just bad luck. Scratching his cheek, he wondered if McCormick would survive intact, then frowned in doubt. Wasn't likely anyone could spend nearly two years in such a place and come out the same person he'd been. Would the kid end up bitter, or would he make contacts that would take him down all the wrong roads? Once again, he recalled the young man's unguarded expressions as he'd listened to the jury's verdict and then the sentencing: shock, disbelief, horror and despair had all flickered over his expressive face and in his eyes in the space of seconds. Hell, despite his smart-mouthed patter, his tough guy jive, Milt was pretty sure McCormick was, if not an innocent, at least not inherently bad. Sighing, Milt shook his head. The system wasn't perfect, but it was better than nothing. Just, sometimes … this kid really didn't belong in Quentin.

Forcing himself to move on, he reviewed what he'd learned from the two wardens. Seemed both men were doing everything they could to score points, no doubt to impress the folks who would decide if they'd get out on early parole. Beale impressed people with his intellect – no surprise there – and spent most of his free time in the prison library, reading. Well, Milt thought, Beale wouldn't have a whole lot in common with his fellow inmates.

McCormick apparently played the comedian, using humor to diffuse awkward or potentially dangerous situations – and there was no surprise there, either. He did the work assigned to him, had exhibited superior expertise when it came to working with anything mechanical, and was also inclined to spend a lot of time in the prison library – and that _was_ a surprise. Maybe it was just a quiet, relatively safe place to keep a low profile? Nodding to himself, Milt figured that would be about the only reason that kid would spend his free time hanging around books.

Blowing a long breath, Milt thought about each man and kept coming back to the fact that they would both be out before he retired, Beale first, then McCormick early in the next year. Beale was an educated man; he'd know how to sort through files, finding pertinent information and noting what was important and what wasn't. And Milt needed that work done; the files were a mess, filled with raw data, much of it redundant. Maybe Beale would be interested in such a task, well, along with the gardening. Couldn't hurt to ask.

_Eight months later …_

"I don't trust him," Sarah stated when he returned to the house after showing Beale to the gardener's trailer.

"Well, I'm not sure how far to trust him, either," Milt allowed, trying for a conciliatory tone. "But we gotta give him a chance."

"He reminds me of a snake-oil salesman," she snipped. "Mark my words – that man is trouble."

"Ah, now, Sarah," he cajoled, "he's made a mistake – a big one – I'll grant you that. But he's paid for it, done the time. Beale is a very smart man and this is a chance for him to get his life back on the right track."

"Smart is as smart does," she returned, sounding unconvinced. "And smart isn't the same thing as honest." But she threw up her hands. "It's your house, Judge. You'll do what you want. But I hope you won't regret this."

_Eight days later …._

Milt stood aside and watched as the local law cuffed Beale and read him his rights. Uncomfortable in the heavy humidity of the Florida evening, he grimaced and shook his head with disgust, but he wasn't sure whether he was more disgusted with Beale, or with his own poor judgment of the man's character. Dammit, Beale hadn't even lasted one night before he'd run, stealing the Corvette to make his getaway. For a smart man, Beale had sure scored a hat trick in mistakes: agreeing to the deal in the first place, when he could just have refused and worked with his assigned parole officer, then running without any planning, and being stupid enough to run in a vintage, relatively easily recognized vehicle, even dumber to have made it all so personal by accepting the proposition and then taking Milt's own car. In the past week, while chasing him across the country, Milt had learned some uncomfortable truths about Beale, not least of which was that his mother was still alive and well in Illinois and certainly had had no need of her son stealing for her supposedly – and entirely mythical – ill health. Beale had played them all during his trial.

"This isn't over, Hardcase," Beale sneered. "You pompous old fool. You should've just let me go."

Milt sniffed. "And you shouldn't've played me like a schmuck," he replied, but without heat. "You might be some kind of genius, Beale, but from where I sit, you've acted like an idiot." Turning toward the nearest officer, he went on, "I'll arrange for extradiction back to California in the morning, and you'll need to ship the Corvette back – it's evidence." Returning his gaze to Beale, he said, "You're going back to prison, to serve out your full term. Maybe a few more years behind bars will do you some good. But I doubt it."

As he was walking away, Beale was shouting, "I'll get you for this, Hardcastle!" Unimpressed by the bravado, Milt didn't bother turning around, just waved a hand in dismissal. He was hot, he was tired, and he needed a shower. Scrubbing a palm over his face, he knew he also needed to seriously reassess his retirement plan, most particularly his strategy for ensuring backup.

_Christmas, 198__2_

Milt went through all the familiar motions of stringing lights outside the house, and setting up the reindeer along the drive and the nativity scene in the backyard. Decorating the tree alone hadn't gotten any easier. He did his best to act the jovial host at the annual Christmas bash, but all he could think about was that when the next Christmas rolled around, he'd be retired.

When all the guests had left, he sat in the den, nursing a whiskey and staring at the fire.

"You all right, Judge?" Sarah asked from the doorway.

"Huh? Uh, yeah, just tired," he replied. "Go on to bed, Sarah. We'll clean up in the morning."

But she didn't leave. Instead, she advanced into the room. "What's wrong?"

Inhaling deeply, he fought the urge to tell her to mind her own business. He knew it wouldn't do any good; Sarah was a law unto herself and when she had a bone in her craw, she had to chew on it. More than that, they'd been friends for too many years for him to deny her the right to ask, and part of him was grateful that she cared enough to be concerned.

Letting out his breath in a long sigh, he held up the bottle of eighteen-year-old Longmorn in a gesture of invitation. With a prim nod, she descended the two steps and sat down on the far side of the desk. He poured a dram and handed her the glass. Sitting back, he picked up his own drink and stared into it while he marshalled his thoughts. "I'm not happy about having to retire next year," he muttered grudgingly.

"So don't," she replied.

"Yeah, well, I'm not sure the idea I dreamt up last year for when I get my marching papers is as good as I thought it was," he explained. "Problem is, nothing else really grabs my interest, y'know?"

"Hmm," she murmured. "You mean that idea about going after the big ones that got away?"

He nodded, but didn't meet her eyes.

"Well, I don't see why you can't still do that," she went on. "Can't say as I'm all that fond of the idea, and you'll probably get yourself killed, but if that's what you want to do, then what's stopping you?"

He couldn't hide his surprise at her comments.

"What, you think I bought that malarkey about fishing? You don't think I haven't noticed you spending all your spare time this past year pouring over those old files in the basement, and bringing in cartloads of new ones?" she demanded with some asperity. "I wasn't born yesterday, and I know you, Milton C. Hardcastle. You want to go after the bad ones. Oh, you'll do it legal, and that's as it should be. But it needs doing and there's no one better to do it."

Despite himself, he felt a smile twitching and he shook his head. "Am I that transparent?"

Her expression softened. "No. I suspect most people think you're at best eccentric and have no idea that you're completely insane." Tossing off her portion, she stood. "So long as you know you can't do it all alone. You really should tell Frank what you're planning; he knows something's up and he's worried about you."

"So you don't think it's ridiculous?"

"Crazy, yes, probably; ridiculous, no," she replied. Frowning, she pursed her lips and then said, "I don't know about this idea of setting a crook to catch one, though. You'd have to do a good deal better than that sociopath, JJ Beale."

"So you figured that part out, too, huh?" he said. "I guess it was a crazy idea."

"Is Beale the only one you considered?"

"No, no, as a matter of fact, there's another guy, one that I kinda preferred, but Beale got out sooner. This other guy, McCormick, won't get out until March."

"What is it you like about this McCormick, that makes you think you can trust him?"

Milt scratched his cheek. "I dunno. I guess … I guess I just don't think he's bad. Not all that bright, maybe. But not bad." But he wasn't as sure of his judgment as he'd been before Beale had taken off in his Corvette.

"Well, he'll be out long before you have to retire. Keep an eye on him. If you still think he has merit when the time comes, you can see if he'd be interested. Stewing about it tonight is a waste of time."

Giving her a crooked grin, he shook his head. "You're something else, you know that, don't you? Not every housekeeper would relish the idea of me bringing another ex-con onto the estate."

She gave an indelicate snort. "As if what I think would make any difference. You're too young to hang up your spurs, Judge – and I have faith that you'll do what's right. You always do."

With that, she abruptly wished him a good night and marched out of the room, sparing him the embarrassment of possibly revealing how touched he was by her confidence in him. And how grateful. He had been doubting the wisdom of his plan but her no-nonsense assessment and staunch, if somewhat starchy commentary, reassured him that his ideas had merit. Oh, sure, insane, maybe, but … also, just maybe, doable.

- o -

_Six months later …_

"How's it goin', McCormick? You keeping your nose clean?" he asked as he wandered into the garage where the kid had found work as a general mechanic.

"Oh, give me a break!" Mark groaned as he stood away from the engine he was working on. "What is it with you, Hardcase? Do you harass all the guys you sent up once they finally get out?"

"I just want to make sure you're doin' okay; somethin' wrong with that?" Milt replied, all genial innocence.

"Yeah, well, do me a favor and stop. I feel like you're stalking me, and I gotta say, Judge, it's very creepy."

Milt laughed and turned away. There was something about this kid and his bravado that intrigued him, and nearly always made him laugh. He couldn't help it; he liked McCormick. But he wasn't sure the guy would ever agree to the kind of working relationship that Milt had in mind. Much as he got a kick out of the kid, he got the distinct impression that McCormick really did not like him and wouldn't jump at the chance to be his gardener cum bodyguard cum partner in justice.

Ah, well, it was another three months before he had to retire. He'd keep an eye on McCormick, make sure he stayed out of trouble and didn't do anything stupid again, like stealing his own car. Maybe he'd come up with a way to persuade the kid to be his Tonto.

- o -

_December, 198__3_

Stringing the lights around the house had taken half the time this year, what with McCormick doing most of the work, and now Milt was once again setting up reindeer along the drive. He was bent over one of the frames that had become twisted when a pair of sturdy hands came into his field of vision.

"Here, Judge, let me help you with that," Mark said, as he lent his strength to straightening the recalcitrant wires. "Solar power, huh?" he rambled on. "You know, I once did a science project on solar energy. Sure wish I'd had one of these babies to help me illustrate the concept."

"Huh," Milt grunted, abruptly caught between his annual memories and those of the man kneeling beside him. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear his son enthusing about his science project, but he shut down the memory. He'd told McCormick a few weeks before that he wasn't looking to replace his son, and he wasn't. Hell, he'd made a point of saying in the beginning that he didn't even expect them to be friends. This was business, about getting the ones that got away but who belonged behind bars, and that was all.

"Yeah," Mark was saying, sounding almost wistful. "That project was a lot of fun. I wanted to show the possibilities of alternate sources of power – you know, to maybe run cars with something other than oil and gas."

"I think we're a long way from having solar-powered automobiles, McCormick," Milt growled, still unsettled by his jumbled emotions and sounding gruffer than he intended.

"Yeah, well, I guess," Mark agreed with easy good humor. "Listen, why don't I finish up here, while you tackle the frames in the backyard? Looks like it'll be pretty great when it's all lit up."

Straightening, Milt looked down at Mark, who was taking great pains to get the frame's shape just right. "You always this cheerful at Christmas?" he asked, his appreciation for the cheerful help all muddled up with the usual bittersweet emotions evoked by the holidays.

Mark's hands stilled, and he shrugged. "No, I guess not," he said quietly. When he looked up, Milt saw an unusual vulnerability in his eyes. "It's just that, well, I guess it's stupid, but when I was in Quentin, I swore to myself that I'd appreciate every Christmas I ever had once I got out of there."

"Oh," Milt replied, sorry to know he'd sounded critical of the kid's abundant good cheer, and momentarily at a loss for words. Clearing his throat, he nodded. "Guess I can understand that." Breaking eye contact, he gestured toward the backyard. "I'll, uh, I'll just go set up the nativity scene."

"Okay," Mark said, his smile once again lighting his face. "And when we're done out here, we can get us some of that eggnog Sarah bought yesterday, and decorate the tree."

"Sounds like a plan," Milt agreed as he ambled away.

No, no, he wasn't looking for any kind of replacement for his son – he didn't want a replacement and, besides, no one could ever … well, that just wasn't possible. But he was glad he wouldn't be alone in decorating the tree this year. Glad he wouldn't be celebrating the holidays alone, when Sarah went to her sister's.

Looking back over his shoulder just before he rounded the corner of the house, he smiled at the sight of McCormick wrestling with one of the reindeer. His plan for retirement had come together nicely; oh, maybe he'd had to strong-arm the kid a little in the beginning and, both stubborn and strong-willed, they often rubbed one another the wrong way. He still didn't trust the kid one hundred percent, but it was working out even better than he'd expected. Together, they'd already bested a few major bad guys at their own game.

The future no longer seemed bleak and empty; instead, he felt younger than he had in years, and more alive, maybe because in the winter of his years, he'd found work he loved that was worth doing, worth living for – and, much to his surprise, he thought he just might also have found an unexpected friend in his gardener cum bodyguard cum Tonto.

Whistling 'We Wish You A Merry Christmas', he set to work in the backyard.

- o -

In the kitchen, hearing the cheerful whistling, Sarah paused in her holiday baking to look out the window and smile.

_Finis_


End file.
